


Partitions

by Articianne



Series: A Series of Holes [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Force Bond, SUPER SMUTTY, gloryholes abound, kylo is a virgin, rey is kinda experienced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Articianne/pseuds/Articianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tatooine is a place for music, dancing, and drinking in lively cantinas, and in its hidden corners lie jobs that Rey is pretty good at. There's a customer who seems to think the exact same thing. Post-TFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partitions

**Author's Note:**

> very smutty - taking a break from Ten Years of Rey to shove a post-TFA, pre-VIII gloryhole fic with you guys. hope you like it!
> 
> PS: rey sucks a lot of dick. it's the nature of gloryholes. i like to think she's efficient and kind of experienced, so honestly, that stuff might not bother her. if it's not your thing, don't worry about reading!

“What is this?”

All she gets is a warble in response, something about “not needing to clean up”—it’s an easy job, quick to do, lots of money aside from her repairs during the daytime. She still has no idea what the fuck her job is.

But convenience works plenty for her, if she doesn’t have to spend time rubbing grease off her face and arms. She doesn’t have to wash up, no need to worry about appearance, apparently. Maybe she’s doing more repairs?

“You have a customer,” barks a human turning the corner of the dimly lit den. “Where d’you have to be?”

“Customer?”

“You’re new, aren’t you?” At Rey’s horribly offended look, the man rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Of course you are.” He exhales a long breath and calls over his shoulder, “Idiot! How many times have I told you to try to get someone with _experience?_ ”

A warble sounds back, apologetic.

“What sort of job is this?” demands Rey, following the man to a small booth. “I was told I’d get to clean junk up. I’m good at that.”

“You’ll clean junk up a’right.” Pulling the curtain aside for her, she’s met with the smallest, dirtiest little room booth she’s ever seen. It smells faintly sour. “Look, I’d have had someone show you how it works, but the clock starts in eight minutes. Keep sucking.”

“Keep suck—hey!” And he’s off, the dirtbag, yelling for people to get in their booths. She sees different species all around her, many of them bored, others popping small pills into their mouths. Some have needles at their arms. Others have bottles of liquor.

All of it goes by so quickly she can’t quite understand what’s happening until she turns back to her booth. It’s even dimmer in there than it is outside, though dark surroundings haven’t really bothered her. There’s a half-empty bottle of alcohol in the corner. One of the other maintenance workers might’ve forgotten about it.

“One minute,” calls the same man, walking back across the booths. “Get in your spots. Don’t forget to take a swish after every session. You’re paid to clean ‘em up!”

Then everyone steps into their booths; the sounds of curtains pulling closed are all she hears for the next two seconds, and a light turns on from the ceiling.

There’s a dark hole in front of her.

A noise escapes Rey’s mouth, the smallest “oh” she might have possible made in her life as she suddenly realizes where she is. Damn, she’s going to be killed. Finn’s going to kill her. Poe will kill her, probably asking how it went first and if she made good money. Fuck, even _Luke_ will kill her. If he hasn’t taken her as a Padawan yet, he sure won’t do it now.

Except she needs this—needs to be on Tatooine to keep herself sane whenever she’s not trying to convince Luke to help the Resistance, needs to be somewhere where there’s a crowd of people she doesn’t know who can hide her from the ever-looming first order, and what better place than the home to the best cantina in the galaxy? And she’s always been up for a little challenge. She’s already given her word . . . already sat herself down, stared at the hole in front of her for enough time to stomach the foreign feeling of apprehension. Her toes are tingling. Something lifts her gut up to her throat and she finds herself grabbing the bottle of alcohol in the corner, swishing some of the burn through her teeth, and spitting it on the grimy floor between her feet.

A bell rings in the distance. Well, if she’s going to do this, she might as well do it the best she can.

The space in front of her, past the hole, is dark, almost as if it’s another separate room in general. Something creaks in front of her—a door, its hinges sounds against each other and making her hold her breath. Shutting her eyes, she takes a long breath, long used to the salt and sour smell in the booth. _I can do this._

So when she has to take a Tusken’s dick through her lips thirty ticks later, she’s gotten past the nausea in stomach, has the alcohol ready to numb her tongue. She cleans like she’s done to so many dirty parts she’s scavenged. Every drop that leaks from the tip is another swipe with her tongue, the brush she uses so she can get her pay. Every grunt past the hole is the sound she might make with her finger on the metal of a clean surface—the squeak she gets when something’s been done right. Her hands let her pull the Tusken apart so she can get every inch of him, do her job right.

It’s surprisingly easy when she goes blank in her head and thinks of it this way.

The time’s up in fifteen minutes when the Tusken groans twice during his slot with her. She says nothing, takes cum in her mouth, hair, dripping from her eyelashes, and the second he’s gone she has to spit and douse her tongue with alcohol. _Fuck._ She wishes she had some more. It’s not going to last her past the next two customers. “If I’m that lucky,” she mutters dryly, catching her grease-stained, sticky reflection on the bottle’s surface.

The next customer is another Tusken, this time so small she has no problem pressing her lips to the wall itself to get all of him in. He also makes no noise. None at all, and it’s so fucking frustrating, because this time she can’t think of cleaning parts up. All she hears is herself pumping back and forth, back and forth, trying not to break the surface of her lips against the edge of the hole because the Tusken’s so fucking tiny.

And the customer after him is pressing her cunt against the other side of the hole with such insistency ten minutes later Rey has to finish almost all of the liquor off and swallow it this time, her throat burning at how much alcohol is actually in it. It’s the strongest she’s had—a couple drinks here and there with Poe when he’d first shown her around Tatooine—and it’s there as a friendly precaution to anything she might catch, but as the night goes on she needs to have something to warm herself up. So when the next customer is a human woman, Rey has two-thirds of the alcohol—leaving the rest for when she finishes this one thinking _fuck it_ about whoever might come after her—and slips her warming tongue across the folds greeting the hole.

This woman keens, mewls as Rey pulls her clit apart with her teeth. Cleaning two fingers against her trousers, she fucks the woman with arched knuckles until she hears a gasping scream across the wall, making Rey’s vision go as bright as the bulb above her. And she leaves, rubbing her sopping cunt against the hole so the lips give Rey a farewell shine, and Rey has to finally finish the rest of the alcohol so she can get through to the next one. Damn, she hopes she made good money so far. Especially since she won’t be able to wipe the taste of the next customer off her tongue.

She lets the bottle drop to the rusted floor and wipes her mouth with her strapped sleeves. The light is extra bright now, but she’s not too gone to be bothered that much by it. At least she’ll see what she’s doing a little better. Everything’s a little heightened—from the sound of the door on the other side of the booth opening to the odd shuffle of fabric—lots of it—coming undone.

Something that sounds like metal clangs behind the wall, falls to the floor, and a tired sigh comes after it. Low, rumbles in her warm breast. Then there’s the sound of something being unclasped of another large piece of fabric, dark and heavy judging by the way it thumps when it hits the floor across her knees and on the other side of the dirty wall.

A feeling draws Rey to the hole, something that makes her want to put her eye against it and to see just how much this person’s wearing, because what idiot shows up to a place like this and wears layers upon layers of weighted clothing? But before she can do it, there’s another sigh again, something that sounds very human and weirdly pleasing. Rey leans back on her toes, wipes her mouth, hopes this man will at least give her something good to clean.

Yet, unlike the other three she’s cleaned so far—that’s really the only way she can think about it—this man takes his time with showing himself to her. In fact, he’s almost tentative. Not even hard like the two Tusken she’d almost an hour before hand. She opens her mouth, wants to tell him to hurry the fuck up, but he seems to get annoyed with himself—pulls away from the hole real quick, makes several noises low in his throat as she hears him pump himself, four, five, ten times, no doubt trying to get himself ready. Rey sighs, wants him to hurry up. The one’s paid for an indefinite amount of time, just for until whenever he feels like he’s done, so Rey wants to work quickly, efficiently, and if this guy’s just going to do the job himself then she might as well just—

The man hisses before stepping back in front of the hole in front of her. She sees from her angle as he quickly slips his cock through the slot—he’s hard, definitely, and seems to have taken the same _fuck it_ attitude she has. Well, she can’t blame him if he wasn't hard at the thought of this. It’s not like she was excited herself staring at the two dicks and single pussy she got in the last hour.

Except that was an hour ago.

“Oh,” she says under her breath, wide-eyed and suddenly sobered. _Oh, oh oh oh oh—_ can she do this? She’s seen her fair share of male privates in her life. Female privates, too, because having you to yourself on Jakku isn’t quite a privilege as many would think, and baths are public with whatever water is available. She’s just never had one in her mouth prior to today, though it really hasn’t been anything special, except suddenly her mind is in hyperdrive, going at light speed across every detail on the skin of the man in front of her, how freckles line along the veins, how the tip is a glorious red sheen of sweat and musk, how it extends impossibly long from the hole at the wall. He’s huge.

She leans forward on her knees, tilts her head to the side. Doesn’t know how to take him. So she breathes in—how can it smell so—so—

It slaps her in the face. Fuck!

There’s the obvious rule that neither of them should talk, but the more obvious fact here is she’s clearly taking too long. Suddenly Rey needs to reassure the man behind the wall that _no,_ she quite loves the sight in front of her, she’s not repulsed, she just doesn’t know if she can do this as well as she thinks she can—and at the same time she’s offended, because he’s enormous, have some damn respect for the mouth on the other side of the hole. But both those thoughts are shoved in the back of her head when she sees the way it pulses warmth on her cheek. On the way _he_ pulses warmth on her cheek.

Her thighs press together, her insides squirm, her head goes blank for a moment before she exhales on the silk of his skin and traces a tongue across the underside of his cock. A split second later there’s a stumble and he jerks away; the sound of him bracing himself on the other side reaches her ears and she has to fight a grin. Seems as though he’s not as in control as they both might believe. The lowest, slightest “ _Fuck!_ ” reaches her ears, so quiet and hidden among a gasp she thinks she might’ve imagined it.

But he’s still there for her, still pulsing heat against her face, illuminating the sweat that runs down her temple, and she—

—she takes one hand, wraps fingers around him, and slips her tongue between her lips to give him the longest, slowest kiss on his moist tip that she can possibly give.

He showers all over her.

Showers a downpour of white hot liquid, and Rey’s throat burns with the surprised scream she withholds. He’s come with one fucking kiss on his cock, and he’s panting like he’s ran from one side of the galaxy to the other, and Rey still has him in his hands as he finishes. Yet she’s so intrigued.

She has the pulsing length of a man who falls apart at her fingertips, who spills everything on her without even five minutes of her time. She’s fighting an incredulous laugh as he does something behind the wall—and then suddenly he’s up again, thirty seconds later, and Rey takes him up immediately, kisses him again, and he groans. Reverbs through the walls. Soaks up through his cock and through her knees, meets in her core and sends it flying to her brain.

There it is.

Teeth, tongue and breath meet on his skin and there’s not an empty space in her head. Her mind reels, hums as she doesn’t try to clean him. No, her job’s to make him spill as much as he has given every resource she’s got to use, because that _noise,_ fuck if that noise won’t be the end of her. Something draws her fingers to massage him as he huffs behind the wall, and she keeps her eyes open, seeing through the gaps of the hole that he has his own hand wrapped horribly tight against his base, kneads his balls in time with the way she finds her fingers already under her own trousers.

He comes again when she uses something she’d never think to use in something so abstract as this. When she focuses, pushes the Force at the man on the other side of the booth, the dank air shifts and he comes with a sigh, gentler than before, lets Rey taste him if she wants to. She does, takes a drop of him and pulls the tastes apart in her mind. And now that she’s used the Force once here, it comes to her easily again, and again, and again. . . .

There’s really no room in her head for other thoughts at this point. There’s no room for it to be empty, either, so she focuses every bit of her attention on him. And that fucking wall. She hates it, all of a sudden, wants it gone so she can have the rest of him, kick aside that heavy clothing and lick a line up the trail of hair to his lips—and she thinks she shouldn’t be thinking about his lips but really, she wants to and maybe if she does a good enough job he’ll—he’ll come _back_ —

Damn, she really hates that wall!

The rest of his time with her is elongated, something out a vision she normally has when she sleeps too long and doesn’t have enough to drink. It’s heavy, causes her arms to sink against the wall as she continues, trying to press through as she subconsciously reaches forward and feels him respond. This stranger is familiar. A feeling she’d had once before, though she has no room for that thought _now_ —

He comes again with the slightest noise, a high-pitched, shaking gasp of breath she wants to feel, not just hear. And this time he takes a moment, spends ten seconds breathing as she tries through salt and sweat to swallow whatever she got from him, before he slips away. Rey leans back, wipes her mouth, stares at the hole in front of her as dark folds find themselves being clasped once more against his body.

 _Incredible,_ comes a voice in her head, and she has no idea where it came from but she has no inclination to disagree. It echoes over and over again in her head with the glow of all three of Tatooine’s moons in the sky when she leaves and he’s long gone, makes her run a tongue over her teeth as she stuffs her pay into her sack as she clambers onto the speeder she’d used to get to the cantina. Makes her sit in the seat of the X-Wing fighter plane half an hour later when she reaches it in a daze, thinking of freckles and sighs and a tremor in the Force around her.

That night, she decides not to go back to the base, thinks it might be better to get enough money for a gift for Finn’s newly-assigned birthday.

 

* * *

 

“Most of the time we get the same worker every couple days,” says the man who bothers paying her the tips her customers leave. “Didn’t know you liked it that much.”

“It’s a job, isn’t it?” Rey tells him, taking one of the offered full bottles of liquor.

“That is true,” he says. “I have your tips from last night. Also, your booth got a request for tonight. A full hour, starts two hours past sundown. A little early if you ask me.”

“A request,” she parrots, tucking the bottle under her arm and frowning.

“It’s not uncommon. Some of the regular workers get plenty of reservations. Though I guess it’s a lil’ weird that you got one so quickly. . . .”

“From?” The words leave her mouth before she even realizes.

“Dunno, they just leave their deposit and take a ticket. When they show up we’ll know.”

Rey moves to her booth, already used to its stench by now, and sits in front of it as she waits for sundown to come. She’s not sure why she showed up so early. In fact, she’s not sure why she came back at all—there are certainly cleaner jobs to be working at the cantina, one where she doesn’t have a man’s privates lodged in her mouth. But every single time, Rey thinks about the oddest, most intense sensation she’s ever had in her life. The bend and bow of a man at her touch as she flexes herself and the Force around him. _Incredible,_ comes that voice again, and she wants nothing more than to feel it again, understand how it works, test its limits. . . .

She has about an hour’s worth of clients before that reservation and she hopes it’s not one of the Tuskens. If it’s the woman, she can handle that—but really all she wants is as much time as possible to train on the man she’d had the previous night.

There’s an exhilaration deep in Rey’s belly as she thinks about it. Imagines it. It feels both foreign and familiar, something deep-seated and raw. It cogs through her head as time passes, making every minute longer and longer as she waits. Her hands fiddle with a thread on her vest, waiting for time to go a little faster.

“Ten minutes until the doors open,” comes the call from the end of the booths. “If you have a reservation, don’t forget to keep ‘em occupied the entire hour!”

Sure enough, some workers have a list of ticket numbers—some have reservations that go up until the early hours of dawn. Rey only has the one, as far as she’s concerned, but she’s determined to make that one good. Tusken or not.

The hour of clients she has is excruciatingly slow, but to her relief, not as peculiar as it had been yesterday. She knows how to use the alcohol now, takes care not to swallow that much because she hopes somewhere in the back of her mind that the man from last night comes back and she wants to remember every second of it.

Two hours past sundown, and not a second later, the door opens after five clients and shuts with the same creaking from yesterday. Rey leans forward, squints. She can’t see that much because the person moves quickly, eager—but judging by the sharp breaths from his nose, she knows exactly who it is, and the pulse in her ears skyrockets.

 _He’s back,_ she thinks to herself, almost giddy with the discovery. It lights sparks through her chest, straight to her fingertips, makes her alight with glee. She has to have done something properly to have deserved a reservation from him, right? He’s come back, wanting for more.

And he's so quick that there's less noise from before—less clothing. He's prepared, hasn't come with nearly as much fabric to shed. It's addictive having someone anticipate her like this; her skills have never before been so sought after, and being appreciated is high up on her list.

He slips through the hole and greets her already ready. No need for him to fix himself up, no need to give himself a few pumps of his large hand. Though, she sees quickly, his hand is gloved today, black leathery fabric that hides quickly behind the wall. Images flash of a man standing on the other side of the booth, gloved hands set against the wall and he both stumbles and slow dances against the hole. Rey wants to see his face, all of a sudden, wants to meet a set of eyes that watch her with the thirst and hunger she's known on Jakku. . . .

Not to mention he's _beautiful_ compared to the clients she's had so far, unbelievably so, and she's not at all ashamed of thinking it. She gives him a kiss on his head, same as the previous night, and he _groans,_ a heady and long thing that makes her kiss him over and over and over. Open lips, closed, not taking him in her mouth but treating every part of him with as much attention she can, and he fucking loses it when she finally wraps her lips around his tip. Spills quickly again, straight into her mouth.

Today, though, he’s so much more demanding; his fingers scrape, gloved and harsh, on the other side of the booth; he yields pants, words whispered through the way he seems to bite through clothing, and the amount of _power_ she has with his cock rod-straight and ready for her is enough to almost make her lose it the first time on this job, too. When she lets teeth touch one of his freckled veins, he thrusts so hard and almost comes undone all over again and she chokes, has to cough.

Harsh breathing from the other side as she gathers herself and ignores the bottle of liquor at her knees. _I can do this,_ she repeats firmly in her head. Her throat is a little sore, but it’s no matter she can’t deal with. . . .

There’s a mumble from the other side. Rey’s hand inadvertently tightens around him, the side of her palm catching slightly against the jagged edges of the hole, and the mumble turns into a low moan.

She can’t talk. Should she talk? She has to have enough patience to last it out, no words, for the next forty-five minutes—

—except he’s already talking, anyway, only a couple words in a whisper she has to strain to hear. “Turn around,” he breathes. Is _she_ making the Force tremble around her like that? It's filled with tension as she slowly lets go, rises to her feet, struggles to feel past the sudden tremors in the air around her.

Except the Force pulls her back toward the wall, begs her to turn around. There’s no way that’s her. No way she’s the one calling the Force to her like that. Whoever’s behind that wall must be like her. And if that's the case—since she only knows two others who know the Force—then she's not going to let him try to control her. That’s her job, isn't it? She'll turn around. Fine. On her terms.

She leaves her trousers on—takes care to shed her vest, remove her belt and sack. And, not realizing she's holding her breath until she does it, she presses her back to the wall and straddles his cock, lowering herself, legs spread, until he’s pressed against her center through layers of trousers and underclothes. She can see the tip of him extend from beneath her groin as she flattens herself against the wall, hovering just barely above him. It's exhilarating. It's fucking _exhilarating._

His head digs into the wall between them, a groan reaching her ears. The shaft between her legs seems to angle impossibly upward. Rey has to stifle a nervous laugh when he shifts and pokes her inner thigh; it comes out as a strangled gasp instead. Her fingers trace, grasp for his head, swirls a thumb around the top, and she bends her knees to let the fabric of her trousers make him go crazy.

However he manages to work with the Force immediately makes her head go bright with pleasure—shit, she can practically feel the way the wall reflects his heavy panting on his own lips, how the angle of his hipbones arch painfully into the metal in front of him. It's only a flash, but she sees gloved hands come up to his head, grasp in his own hair, fumble pathetically at the fucking barrier between the two of them. She _feels_ how his teeth bite his lips, bruising them, how he cinches a gloved hand around the base of his straining cock and gives hard tugs to the beat of her cleaning. And, perhaps best and worst of all, she feels how he wants to say a name, but he doesn't quite know which, because fuck, he really, really shouldn't be thinking about her.

Rey never gets to know who he’s thinking about. Never gets to know what's behind the cloud of pleasure in their heads. She knows his hips curl into the hole because his dick keeps wanting to _move,_ and she's almost fed up with it herself—but suddenly she thinks if she gives in, he'll tire of her, won't come back.

“I will,” he groans, almost incomprehensible, as if he’s afraid of saying any more to reveal himself.

Well. Fuck.

She practically rips her trousers off, almost crushing his cock in the hole in the process (to which he makes a laughable yelp of surprise); her knees, red from kneeling the entire night, unceremoniously meet the rusted floor and she winces, but it does nothing to deter her, because honestly this man can have her ten times by the end of the week and she'll still go to her knees if it'll mean he comes back.

Lucky for her, the Resistance is quite adamant about the medical side of their forces, and Rey’s undergone a number of tests to ensure she won't have a predicament in the future. Nothing is stopping her. She's her own mind, has full access to what she wants to do, and maker forbid she doesn't get to do this right now. She almost tears her underclothes, too, but instead pulls them aside and waits for him.

And keeps waiting.

When his tongue is what slips straight into her and not his cock, her eyes cross.

They stay crossed, too, when he has no fucking clue what he's doing, but it doesn't matter because all she's done in her nineteen years of life is given herself the occasional relief with a couple fingers. So this, _this_ is otherworldly, and she thinks she might pass out for the second time in her life. And she's never been one to make noise during these things, but if she doesn't she'll explode at the rate her insides are coiling. So she does, _this_ time being the smallest “oh” in her life, and _oh oh oh he’s got a grin on her clit, oh, Maker, please._

Her breath hitches and her mind speeds into a memory of the same hitched breath when she remembers the breath of an enemy against her jaw, but honestly, that’s neither here nor now and _that_ can wait, because she has a man with his tongue halfway curled around the nerves she toyed around by herself in the past several years. She has a mouth locked onto her center and a nose nuzzling into her like he’s breathing for the first time in his life, and this is beyond anything she might’ve imagined, oh, oh no, oh no.

Pressure delves straight down her spine, lights up every pore in her fingers and they meet his mouth as she braces herself on only one forearm, the other reaching for something so fucking intangible but it’s right there, she just needs to get it done—he seems to know that, too, but he takes one of her fingers in his mouth, bites and sucks, joins her single finger with his own gloved thumb and slips into her with a heady breath.

She has no clue how long they’re there, him with his leathery finger arched against the one place that makes her eyes squint shut and her teeth bite her lip numb. So when there’s a sharp knock on the door on his side of the booth, Rey lets out an audible gasp, curses the galaxy ten times in her mind, and nearly falls flat on the floor; _one more minute,_ she could’ve been done, the pressure in her gut so fucking awful she has to pull herself to the corner and catch her breath, replace her fingers on where his mouth had just been, and work herself until she uncoils and the Force breaks around her.

He’s still there, she realizes when the stars fade from her vision. And he’s tugging himself off, the harsh rasps of his breath reaching her ears through the insistent knocking from the door, and when he spills on his side she feels the Force shatter again. Makes her lean her head back, soak in his relief as if she’s come twice in a minute.

The knocking gets so insistent (”You’re a whole three minutes over, get out!”) that she hears him trip over his feet to gather himself. She can’t look—she doesn’t want to, afraid that if she does she’ll tear out of the booth, pull him into the corner of the cantina and finish the whole thing herself.

Whatever odd thing they have, her and her peculiar misfit of a customer who knows virtually nothing about this stuff (but honestly, does that really matter?), it’s an odd thing that makes Rey happy.

Rey’s happy. She wonders if he can feel it, over that peculiar little bond they seem to have with the Force.

 

* * *

 

That night she’s in the X-Wing, half an hour by speeder away from the cantina and staring out the cockpit at the night sky. She’s planted in the middle of Tatooine, far from town where no one’s sure to find her ship, which is exactly what she needs.

There’s a thrum at the edge of her mind, awakened from the past two nights yet somehow familiar in her head, as though she’s felt him before. Which is ridiculous. _It’s the Force,_ she reasons with herself firmly, remembering Maz’s words about it. _It runs through every living thing, so of course he’d feel like that._

Worse was the matter of if she should leave, return back to the base, or stay on Tatooine—surely Finn and Poe are worried, now, even though she’s told the latter she wants to make more money for Finn’s birthday gift. She wants to give them a holocall but she knows that they’ll want her to come back regardless of what she says. One night on a planet with the most well-known cantina in the galaxy is dangerous enough; _two_ nights is like greeting danger with a funeral pyre.

She really, really doesn’t want to leave.

She’s on the edge of sleep ten minutes later when the thrumming at the edge of her mind picks up. Blinking, she sits up in the cockpit and grasps for her staff lodged beside her seat. Fatigue vanishes from her mind when she hears an odd word, watered down, somewhere very far away.

“Hello?” she asks aloud, her brows drawing into a frown. “H— _oh. . . .”_

Rey _does_ hear a word, but it’s not really far away. It’s in her head. It’s in her head, and it’s not, and it’s ringing behind her eyes as she hears it: _Rey, Rey, Rey._

Her hand skyrockets to her mouth.

It’s _him_ , and he’s got a hand palmed around the tent of his trousers, and she can’t _see_ it but she can hear the gasp of her name— _hers!_ —on his tongue. Transfixed, Rey’s eyes settle nowhere in particular on the dark horizon past the cockpit of her X-Wing, and all she hears is her name, over and over again, whispered into the depths of a dark room. And, really, she should be appalled that he knows her name. Appalled that somehow he’s cornered her in the back of a cantina to pay her to clean him as well as she does. Except the lilt of her name through his teeth, accented with every jerk of his hips and jolt in his groin, is fascinating. So fascinating. . . .

She extends one tendril of thought, a brush against her name that leaves his lips, and he comes apart in his hands. “Rey,” he manages, high-toned and broken, and she knows that voice, doesn’t she?

But he’s so spent that the exhaustion rushes back to her ten-fold, and a minute later she’s slung into sleep in the cockpit of her fighter plane.

 

* * *

 

She debates not going in the next night. One, because she has more than enough money to buy Finn _two_ nice gifts, and two, she thinks she might not last tonight if he shows up and says her name.

And three. For some reason or another, he knows who she is.

Three perfectly acceptable reasons that should make her head back to the Resistance base. Four, if she considers the completely acceptable fact that she’s been on Tatooine way, way too long.

But now that she’s felt him so clearly several hours ago, she feels him constantly. Pulsing at the edge of her mind. Heightened, like herself, with each passing hour as sundown approaches. “You have a reservation,” says her boss, who hands her one full bottle of liquor and an odd look. “For the full night. No other customers. You’ve got an admirer. To be honest,” he adds, “it’s a little weird that you’ve been here two nights and have a full night’s purchase. Weird to find anyone with that much money to hand around. Y’know what to do?”

“Not really,” she admits, shouldering her sack.

“You can either spend the whole night with him in that cramped little booth, or have the night in a private room,” says her boss. “Personally, I’ll say take a room. Leaves an extra booth for some more customers. But if you don’t want him to see you, we’ve got covers, blindfolds—he won’t know you at all.”

She thinks about it for a moment. She really doesn’t need the money. Really doesn’t need to be here on Tatooine any longer. But she _wants,_ oh, does she want, and she’s never really had that much she could _want_ before. It makes her whole being buzz with adrenaline, of which she lives off. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll do that.”

“Good on you,” he says, leaving her to herself a moment later.

Rey takes her time ‘til sundown, figures it’ll be her last night on Tatooine. There are plenty of traders around she’d normally spend her time trying to haggle with, but today she’s just fine walking around. When the sun begins to set over the tattered buildings and many traders begin to wander into the cantina, she heads back, tries to ignore the way her hands fiddle with her buns, the way her fingers have permanently molded into her staff. She slips into the back quickly, finds the private room. Makes sure that they’ll have her waiting reservation unable to see her—with blindfolds around his eyes and his hands bound so he can’t take them off.

An hour after sundown is when they’re supposed to start. Two minutes prior, she hears the noises outside the small room’s door. Rey swallows, lets her eyes roam her surroundings. The room’s dark. No lights—or if there are, they won’t turn them on—and there’s only a bed in the corner. It’s small but much better than the booth she’d been in the past two nights.

When the door latch turns, Rey’s halfway inclined to shut her eyes, halfway inclined to lock the door back up herself. She doesn’t do either.

The door opens and she can’t really see who enters, who enters with heavy steps, slowly, as though running through mental calculations. She steps aside, lets him enter the stream of light that comes from Tatooine’s three moons.

Her stomach drops at the sight of him, blindfolded and arms tied behind his back, supposedly harmless. He’s supposed to be harmless.

He’s not supposed to be Kylo Ren—it’s what Rey is struggling to get around. He’s not supposed to be fucking Kylo Ren, who chased her and Finn across the galaxy. He’s not supposed to be Kylo fucking Ren, who murdered his own father on the First Order’s base.  He’s not supposed to be Kylo Ren, the man whose cock she’s sucked for the past two nights, the man who ate her out less than twenty four hours ago, the man who muttered her name while rubbing himself off as she watched over a connection between them through the Force.

He’s Kylo Ren.

And _he,_ she thinks suddenly, fury suddenly lighting through her gut at the sight of him, _he knows her_ , doesn’t he? Hasn’t he been calling her name? Hasn’t he been _using her?_ Was this not some ridiculous plot—because of _course_ she can’t have gone to Tatooine and not be followed. Of _course_ he’s been tailing her. Of course he—

“Where are you?” he says suddenly. “Where do I sit?”

She _almost_ opens her mouth, almost reaches for the staff that’s lying across the sheets on the small bed. But the way his lips are downturned, the way she can just barely see a scar from the top of his blindfolds disappear and reappear at the bottom, trailing down his right cheek and into long collar, the way his hands are bound behind his back. . . .

Rey can’t say anything. Instead, has to breathe. Take a deep breath. She’s fought him before. She can do it again, if it comes down to it. She has Luke’s lightsaber. But it’s reckless. Reckless to do this—reckless to go through with it.

Finn’s going to kill her. Poe will kill her, probably asking how it went and if she enjoyed herself first.

But Finn _won’t_ kill her, of course not, because she can handle herself and she knows exactly what she’s doing and, if anything, he’ll be happy she’s back in one piece. And she doubts she’ll mention it unless she has to, unless something might pop up later, but if it does, he’ll understand that it her situation is, quite literally, do or die—and Poe, of course, will ask her if the X-Wing ran smoothly and if Kylo Ren divulged any important information as she had her lightsaber at his cock.

Rey moves forward, thinks _fuck it_ again, and clasps two hands around his waist. There’s no long robe there, just a dark shirt, the stripped sleeves lining his arms, the leathery breeches that tuck into his boots. He has no cape, no mask—of course not. Who would recognize him without the mask on Tatooine? All he has is a blindfold around his eyes, a scar disappearing into his shirt.

And his lightsaber. Tucked far enough into his belt that it’s easy to miss on first glance, but not to her.

Rey knows the second her hand touches it, the second it’ll be severed. So she steers clear, trying keep her hands plastered firmly on his hips, even though it’s so hard to think about anything other than the fact that it’s Kylo fucking Ren.

Until he speaks. “Can I touch you?” he says, quietly, voice cracking right at the end.

How in the galaxy is she supposed to reply to that? _Of course, feel free, just try not to kill me._ Somehow she thinks that wouldn’t go over very well.

“Not with—not with my hands,” he continues, still quiet, his face angled up to the ceiling. “I haven’t really done this before. As you might have known. But I’ve had something on my mind for a while, and this—this helps.”

Helps with _what?_

But it’s not like she can _tell_ him anything. He’s probably waiting for her to slip up, or something. Probably waiting for her to try to run so he can blackmail her.

“And,” he adds, because she hasn’t done anything yet, and somehow he won’t shut up, “I always have this—this _girl_ in my head. Every time I’ve been with you. Before that, even. The company is preferred over _some_ people with whom I spend my time. I don’t think _you’d_ quite get it—but it makes it easier for me to get out of here. I—”

Rey is rapt with attention, eyes wide, completely bemused. _Does he—not know?_

“—so I’ve been coming here, asking for you. I hadn’t wanted to the first time. But I kept having nightmares, and I needed something to occupy myself. I’d heard of this place. It’s famous across the galaxy. And that girl, the one in my head—this is fucking ridiculous, what am I saying?”

He has no clue that Rey is the one who’s been getting him off the past two nights.

What shouldn’t be pity and what _absolutely is_ pity fills her until her hands drop from his hips. Rey steps back, tries to decide if she should say anything. Tries to decide if she should leave. And if she leaves, he’ll leave, and he’ll go back to his room or wherever he’s staying, and he’ll—just like the previous night—he’ll grit his teeth and tilt his head back into the cushions beneath him and her name will roll off his tongue as he spills himself over his stomach.

This entire time, her mouth open in silent wonder, this—this man has been connected to her over the Force. She has to guess it happened back on Starkiller, awakened two nights ago when he’d first appeared on Tatooine. For her, she thinks suddenly. _You’re so lonely,_ he’d told her.

Fuck!

“Where did you go?” He sounds panicked, frustrated. “Are you still here?”

 _Please, just shut up,_ she thinks, and she lands two hands on his torso. He starts, surprised, but backs into the bed, knees buckling under him. And when he falls on his back against the cot, Rey swings one leg over his groin, settles against him, and presses down.

The longest _ohhhhhhhhhhhhh_ leaves his lips, almost like a whine. Entranced, she does it again, rolls her hips along the strain of his breeches. His back arches, rises into the air and his shirt pulls enough from his neck to reveal pale skin dotted by freckles and moles. Rey leans forward, sheds her vest, presses her breasts against his chest so she can reach him because fuck, he’s long. Everything about him is enormous.

Fingers pulling at the collar and hips squirming along his own, she wets her lips and licks a line along his jaw. Everything about him hisses. His teeth, his nose, the way he struggles to pull his hands out of their binds.

The Force is practically ready to explode around them.

“I didn’t—” he begins, having to gasp when she lays her teeth against the bend of his neck, “I didn’t—finish what I started last night—”

 _You don’t need to,_ she thinks, vaguely wondering if he’ll get it. If he’ll get any of it. If he’ll realize he’s about to fuck her, Rey, the scavenging nobody from Jakku.

“I do,” he answers her, aloud. “I— _ah—_ ”

She sits up, has to push sweaty baby hairs from her face. Can’t he just—can’t he just make this _easy?_ He keeps talking, won’t stop fucking _talking,_ and suddenly she realizes it’s because he’s lonely, too, damn it, it’s not going to be easy no matter what she does.

Instead of saying anything, she rises and pulls him to his feet. Sits herself on the bed—turns him around, has him kneel facing her, and she pulls her trousers off and tosses them to the side before hitching both her legs around his neck.

She doesn’t have to say anything, really. He takes orders from her like he hands them off to everyone else.

The one thing, Rey realizes, is his face is perfectly made for her, and she fucking hates it. His nose is long, tongue longer. He breathes her in like he’s never breathed before in his life and whatever pathetic noises leave from her lips, he only tries to make more of them. It’s still infinitely better than whatever she’s done when she was younger, by her lonesome on Jakku.

 _If you’d just let his hands go,_ comes some horrible little voice in her head. _If you did it. . . ._

Her fingers cinch around the straw-like fabric beneath her. Wants to reach for his hair. She can feel it. When he pulls at a bundle of nerves half the time she doesn’t know even exists and she _breaks,_ her hands finally reaching for his hair and pressing him as far between her legs as he can go, he laughs—he fucking _laughs_ —laughs with his nose pressed into her clit and with his lips stretched into a smile she feels straight through her spine.

It takes her two minutes to come after that, two minutes when her legs go weak and she can’t hold him in place anymore. Two minutes of _him_ cleaning _her_ out, when really this is her job, but she’s never been one to stick solely to the rules. Who is?  When she opens her eyes, staring at the dark ceiling above her, she feels him rise shakily to his feet—no doubt having felt the same thing through the Force—and stumble onto the bed.

“Can I—”

He swallows, mid-question, shaking his head slightly at himself. Another moment passes, seems to last forever.

“Can I call you Rey?”

Silence fills the air as her mind runs over it, again and again, and she must look an idiot, staring at him with her mouth agape and her eyebrows halfway to her hairline. But _he_ can’t see her, and he doesn’t even know it’s her, because somehow he’s so oblivious to the fact that she might _possibly_ be the same girl to whom he’s connected through the Force.

The next time they meet, she reasons to herself, will be as enemies, but if she can learn about him now—might understand how this broken son of Han Solo came to be—she can let him call her by her name.

A hand hooks around his neck, pulls his ear close to her lips. “Yes,” she breathes, and suddenly he’s all over her, open mouthed kisses on her jaw, neck, in her hair, against the dip of her breasts through her shirt. His arms are still bound but he makes do regardless, clambering on top of her with as much grace as a Bantha, digging his face into her neck and breathing her in until he crushes her with his weight.

Rey, he calls her over and over and over again. Rey Rey Rey Rey Rey. Rey, he murmurs against her ear as he traces the shell of it with his tongue. Rey, he sighs when she leans down and undoes his trousers. Rey, he breathes when she takes him into her hands and makes him come twice in succession when she sucks the peppered skin with devout attention to every single freckle.

She wants to say it back, she realizes when he tries to line himself up against her (quite difficult to do when his arms are still tied behind his back). She _wants_ to. Wants him to see what she’s capable of. Wants him to _see_ that she has him _at her whim_ , and that she somehow really, really likes it.

And Rey . . . she wants to see that scar.

When he pushes into her, slow for his own sake because Rey’s halfway certain he’ll spill again just by entering—no self control, fuck—she reaches up, feels the knot of the blindfold hidden in the dark locks of his hair, and undoes it.

It falls away, and his eyes are closed, and his scar—her scar—trails from one half of his face from his forehead and past his right eye down to his cheek.

He doesn’t seem to notice that the blindfold is gone until he’s all the way inside of her, pulsating with fire that threatens to make her vision go white. But a second passes—Rey tries to fit all of him in because, like she noted before, every part of him is big, long—and his eyes open.

Kylo Ren looks at her, where she’s propped up against the headboard, where she has two hands holding him steady because he has none to steady himself. He looks at her, blinks, can’t speak. Looks at her, frowns, opens his mouth in a croak. Honestly, undeniably, completely speechless, for once in his fucking life.

“What are you waiting for?” she says, molding one hand into his hair and using the other to feel the scar that decorates his long face. “Finish what you started.”

So Kylo Ren leans forward, breathes a couple words on her lips, not a kiss but a kiss nonetheless, and she flips them over, settling on him and pulling her buns apart so she can curtain his face as she leans down. His trousers don’t get in the way because there’s so much of him; she rolls, clenches when she finds out it makes his abdomen curl, and lets him bite at her neck as she tickles fingers along the scar. She knows, by the way he winces slightly as her hands move to his right shoulder, that it goes further along than just his neck, so she lets him have her shoulder, too, and he bites so hard she thinks she might’ve come already—but then he tilts his hips up, angles just slightly, and then she _really_ comes, and she sees purple behind her eyes.

“Rey,” he moans when she reaches behind her, feels for his sack as he tries to come again himself. “Rey—” _Rey,_ there it is, and he gasps, squeezes his eyes shut and rolls his shoulders back into the mattress. Rey takes all of him, because who in the galaxy wouldn’t take the water they’re proffered in the middle of the desert?

When he uncurls, when his shoulders relax and when his mouth goes slack—when his eyes open—he stares at the ceiling for a long, long, long while, and Rey sits on top of him, not quite sure if she should move. If she should grab her staff, run—stay.

“So it was you?” he says finally, eyes finally shifting from the ceiling to her own. She nods, not quite trusting herself to speak.

“You. This whole time,” he says again, clearly not believing it.

“Yes,” she says finally.

“Wh—” He looks positively embarrassed, his skin going flush red. Never mind the fact that she still has his cock buried in her. “ _Why?_ ”

“That’s a good question,” she tells him, very honest, quite possibly the most honest thing in her life. “I suppose if _you_ were in my situation, where I would kill you had you not done what I wanted, you would do the same thing.”

“I wouldn’t kill you,” he says immediately.

Rey opens her mouth, ready to tell him off, but then her head catches up with his words. “You wouldn’t?”

“No, I—” He swallows, the apple in his throat bobbing the light of Tatooine’s moons as he does so. “Why would I kill you?”

“You killed your father,” she says. Her chest twinges. Why the fuck is she still sitting on his cock?

“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “I did. But not you.”

“I beat you in the forest,” she says. “I beat you. On Starkiller.”

“I suppose you did,” he offers, and then his eyes break from hers, back at the ceiling. “But I still could have killed you. I chose, you know. I chose not to. Some choices are right,” he adds. His brows furrow in the smallest frown. “Some are wrong.”

The silence that follows is long, surprisingly not tense, and she doesn’t move. He blinks once, twice, then tries to sit up—Rey leans to the side, awkwardly, tries to pull a cushion to help him up, and he stiffens. “Get off.” Right. Because she still has his dick inside her.

She does, tosses a sheet over him, fixes a cushion behind his back. “I—I need to leave,” she says finally as she sees his fingers twitch, trying to unbind himself. “I—”

“How much do I owe you?” he interrupts, eyes meeting hers with such intensity she loses track of her words. “For your time.”

“Oh.”

A beat passes.

“Nothing,” she says, gathering her vest and trousers from the floor. “You don’t need to pay me. I don’t need it.” _Don’t want it,_ she tries to convince herself. Once she’s fully dressed, she reaches for her sack and her staff, slings the latter over her shoulder, ignores the way her hair falls around her shoulders rather than stays tied up in her typical buns. Her eyes fall on his lightsaber, hidden mostly by his belt and shirt, and then to his bound arms.

“If you’re that terrified of me,” he says lowly, “you can leave, you know.”

Rey knows that, of course.

“But I won’t—I won’t do anything,” he says. “Everything I said was the truth. I don’t _lie._ ”

A moment, two moments, three moments later, and Rey moves forward, pulls the lightsaber from his belt. He stiffens immediately, eyes following the way her hands trace the kyber crystal in the center. When she looks back up at him, he does the same; she sets the lightsaber to his side and reaches for the bindings around his wrists.

They unclasp, fall to the mattress with a thump. His hands shoot to his lightsaber—Rey’s throat jumps, about to ready her staff.

He holds the lightsaber close to himself, tucks it back into his belt, reaches under the sheet and tries in some dignified manner to tidy himself up. Cheeks warm, Rey looks away, steps back toward the door.

“I have to leave,” she says.

“Then go.”

“I—”

“Rey,” he says, this time not out of want, heady need. “The next time I see you, I _will_ show you the ways of the Force.”

 _You—you already have_ , she wants to tell him, but he probably already hears her.

“Your friends are probably worried,” he continues, sobering. “Go.”

Rey’s stomach tightens, and she walks forward again, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, holds it there for several seconds. “We’re still enemies,” she says as she pulls away. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Of course not.”

Rey adjusts the staff over her shoulder, opens the door, and doesn’t lock it behind her. The half hour it takes for her speeder to get to the X-Wing is filled with scurried thoughts in her head, a jumble of his thoughts and her own, an odd need to reach out to him and to stay silent in her own mind. When she reaches the ship, she sits in the cockpit for several minutes, staring blankly at the horizon, before finally priming the hyperdrive to get ready to leave.

She doesn’t tell anyone what really happened on Tatooine when she gets back, half because they won’t understand, and half because she wants to be ashamed, but she really, really isn’t. But when BB-8 nudges at her leg with a perplexed _brrp?_ an hour after she gets back, staring off at the rising sun and hearing the bleary thoughts of a man leaving Tatooine across the galaxy, she tells BB-8 she doesn’t really want to be Luke Skywalker’s student anymore.

The droid doesn’t tell anyone.

**Author's Note:**

> what do you think kylo says to rey after he finds out it's her and she tells him to keep going?
> 
> i've written smut once before (for yugioh, incredible), so let me know how it was since i'm only just now delving into it. [waves reylo smut flag]


End file.
